To No One Go The Spoils
by The Madman From The Bronx
Summary: His cynicism and stubbornness convinced him that he could never be cheated. And here he was, just where he wanted to be, after all. No, he wasn't cheated. He had just backed down at the wrong time. At Normandy, WWII's most telling battle, Emil remembers.
1. Introduction

Tiny black dots floated down from the sky, dropped from larger grayer dots, to the seas, and disappeared under the latter. The young soldier looking upon couldn't help but snicker. The "Allies" were almost as bad off as they were.

"This is crazy!" The soldier beside him exclaimed. "A smart fellow knows I'm as loyal as the next person, but Hitler is wrong this time. We have nothing. Our planes make a poor match to theirs. We need to move out."

"You shouldn't speak so of your superiors." The young soldier felt himself saying out of habit, though the part about no planes was undeniably correct.

"Halt die Schnauze, Lutz. Just because you're older than most of us doesn't mean you have the right to talk down."

"You're wrong." Lutz smirked, though he wanted to wring this retarded imbecile's neck. "I have been here longer than any of you. I have the experience. You—have nothing."

"If you were a Frenchman, I'd kill you in a second." The younger fighter said in disgust, reloading his rifle and staring with intent at the crawling, American-packed beach.

If he were not under orders, he would kill _this_ boy in a second, Lutz thought to himself in frustration. He didn't know how he had toiled, idled, and prepared for this role. Nobody knew how he had had to bargain, crawl, beg, intimidate, sit back and take orders, not to mention that stupid WEL camp training he had to go through, for 6 weeks, for years, _years_ before _this_. They would not even put Lutz, who had long been qualified, held back because he was qualified, in an advanced camp. And Herr Berger had gotten right in without trying. Luftwaffe. He could swear that bastard was a fucking faggot, the way he moped around after Peter had been hauled away to Fuhlsbüttel, where those other Hamburg Swingheine were taken. Well he had "wised up," hadn't he? Anything was better than the pointless humiliation those Swing Kids faced, but it was the local Gestapo, the Hitlerjugend leader, and so Hitler himself that had done _this_ to him, held him back for so long. Neither side could win.

The same seemed true for the situation he witnessed now. Most of the paratroopers were drowning, and few were getting past the hedgehogs they had set up in the sea. But the Allies had air superiority and 5000 planes on its side. The Luftwaffe, in grim comparison, had 820 aircraft, 200 of which were ready to go into battle. Allegedly no regiment had received commands from the Führer yet. There was a story going around that their leader had gone into hiding after hearing about the surprise and could not currently be found. 'That showed how brave of a leader we have had these past eleven years,' several fighters Lutz had overheard said with disgust. The story was nonsense. Hitler was awake, alert, and aware of their action on the beach and would be ready to call them back if they failed. Rommels was in Germany now, but they didn't need him to give the word- Hitler was the high commander. If the entire division was gullible enough to believe this wide-spread tall tale, they were not worth much- a fact that would not surprise Lutz. Back in his day the HJ leaders had taught eager students, not these oafs he had to call his comrades now. Even Berger had had a healthy patriotic spirit for the year or so he was enrolled. Berger may be a faggot, but he had had more 'man' to him than this whole division put together, it seemed. But he was still a cheating, conniving, sickening _faggot_. If Lutz ever met his former friend again, he would kill him without consideration.

Lutz, looking at the beach, felt a strange ringing in his ears and swore he could almost hear the radio broadcast that would surely be blaring from every radio in the country even so soon at the end of the day: 6 June 1944: Heil Hitler! Long live the Reich! No matter who had the airways, the Americans would be licked on the beach. The pillboxes would make sure of that. And as far as they were concerned, they were invisible, safe in the cliffs. They would surely win. He had not felt so happy since his training in the Hitlerjugend, those days so long ago.

5 years ago he was 17 and born ready for this. 4 years ago he was held back. He would, could, never have his revenge. Only now was he receiving compensation, and it was surely not even worth everything that he had lost. Emil Lutz, no longer a fool and no longer useless, never forgave and never forgot.


	2. Chapter 1

Emil was more lenient than usual during the training session. Then again, he had not had such an all-out boxing match since Berger had gotten smart last year. Face glassy with forced patience, he taught a young boy to block. Embarrassed that he couldn't do it right, the boy kept muttering apologies under his breath. What a pansy.

"Lutz? Herr Lutz?"

Emil turned around. "Yes?"

"The Gestapo seeks your presence immediately in the next room. Heil Hitler." Japanese Sandman, the familiar tune scratched in by the faint-sounding guitar chords of Django Reinhardt, was playing on a phonograph in the background. Mildly surprised at having identified the musician so easily, Emil shook his head a couple times, disoriented, and again looked at his leader, the Bannführer, mirroring his gaze with an expectant glance.

"Heil Hitler." Emil held out his arm and disinterestedly turned out in the hallway. He obeyed all the rules so he knew he wasn't in trouble. This immediate conference- whatever it was- could not be of importance.

Herr Knopp was the man in the "next room." Emil was not surprised. He turned around immediately at the closing of the door.

"Ah. Herr Lutz. Such an honor to speak with you, as always."

Emil raised his eyebrows, a mild expression of polite inquisitiveness on his face. Such a bore to speak with the Gestapo, as always.

"I understand you are to be transferred to the Heer in two weeks."

Emil nodded, smiling. Such a relief to be away from Berger, that nuisance. Berger was joining the Luftwaffe.

"I have heard wonderful things of your leadership skills." Herr Knopp smiled charmingly, staring clearly at him. "Such a shame we must lose such a devoted teacher."

Silence. Emil still stared at him. Why had he brought him here? Was it congratulations? With training these infants for so long, he deserved one.

"Ah, well, of course I came for a reason." Herr Knopp glanced away for a second, speaking again in his soft voice. "A request, actually."

This was beginning to become very annoying to Emil.

"I am afraid we are rather short on trained leaders with so much… talent." Herr Knopp drummed his fingers against each other. "The leader of this Hitlerjugend group and I have decided that it is best if you stay, even though we know you have turned 18."

Herr Knopp paused, scratching his cheek. "You are simply to continue what you have been doing with the _Jungen_ for a while now. Same routines, of course, possibly a little more rigorous than your previous pace. You are a very fortunate young man, Herr Lutz. Our Führer no doubt likes to see such vigor for the Father. Our youth truly do lead the way. Congratulations."

He left the room, walking past Emil on the way to the door, without waiting for a response. Emil had none. Knopp was certainly happy with himself now. That was no request; that was an order. Emil could not say no. But he should've known. Any request from an elder to a youth could not be refused in this administration. He wasn't moving on to the Heer. There was no reward. He was stuck teaching these boys- indefinitely.

Emil, as always, walked stiffly at a brisk pace, and continued this as he left the room. His shoulder brushed against another HJ who was walking even faster than Emil.

"Hey! Watch who you bump into!" He shouted, expecting the boy to turn around and apologize.

The boy was Thomas- he had caught a glance of his face- and now Emil was facing the back of his uniform and his slick, short hair. Too late to take back the words now that he realized it was him- not that he really wanted to, but they were useless on a fool like him. Berger could've started a fight with him again just now.

But Thomas just walked on, his stance much more relaxed than Emil's; he still had a remnant of the notorious Swingjugend swagger, long since he had stopped hitting the clubs. Emil had been rid of all traces naturally.

Thomas had been acting strange ever since the raid Emil had led at the Bismark a few months ago. Emil couldn't understand why Peter was so important to him, no matter if they were best friends. He was captured because he wasn't strong enough to resist the spell that Jews had placed over him. Someone so weak was of little value to them. Perhaps he was upset because he suspected- as did everybody else- that Peter was planning to leave the Hitlerjugend. There were many rumors about it. And, Emil had thought it only rumors; he hadn't even known it was possible. But at the last raid at the Curio-Haus, 237 boys were discovered to be Hitlerjugend members or former Hitlerjugend members; 52 of them had left. He had never met someone who had left and probably never would.

Most of the Hamburg Swingjugend were sent to Fuhlsbüttel so at least Thomas knew where he was. Fuhlsbüttel was merely a prison camp so Peter would even probably be all right. He was lucky. Though, Emil did admit, they were not so lucky as the Berliners- who by authority of the government had a place especially made for them- Moringen. There they could deal with each other and not new strangers. Though it hardly mattered because all prisoners were the same. The camp was still in construction. And there they would also be put to good work- in an ammunition factory at Volpriehausen. Also there would be the ones who dared stand up to the Third Reich.

Emil almost felt sorry for Thomas and his misplaced attachment to people. He was a rebel all right, and against the wrong people. He had been concerned about Thomas for a while, in fact- but he had turned out all right. He just had too much of an instinct for mercy.

Emil went back to meet the Bannführer to discuss this. There was no way in hell he would go back to teaching these imbeciles until he got explicit instructions on what he was wanted to do. Herr Knopp did not have the courtesy to grant him that. When an HJ member turned 18, he either had to join the SS or _Wehrmacht_- and become a member of the Nazi Party- (chances are, both his parents already were members of the Nazi Party) as of 1927. But not all members would be so fortunate. _Most_ members. Emil must've forgotten; of _course_ they had explained that when he had joined. He must've been dozing off, or fooling around, or doing something that he was not supposed to. Surely. Who the hell did Knopp and that youth leader think he was? He had been a loyal _Jugend_ member for 4 years now- 2 years in the _Jungvolk_- and had he ever disobeyed orders? Had he ever, _ever_ goofed off at a meeting, especially his first one?

To be fair, he had fooled around for a few months after leaving the Jungvolk, though that was all in the past. He had been a leader even then: the original hepcat. Emil was ashamed now to have been proud of it. Now, he was the leader of something that actually mattered. He was no longer dancing to that ridiculous music that really wasn't dangerous in any way- he knew, he had been a part of it once- just foolish, and useless. All boys have their rebellious period, and Emil had had his just as every boy did. Thomas never left his and Peter wasn't a true rebel- he was completely transformed by that music.

Knopp didn't know best. _He, _Emil, did. And going into the Wehrmacht-Heer was the best thing that would've ever happened to him in his life- there was nothing more he wanted to do than fight for the Fatherland- and they had destroyed that. Tossed it aside like those Jews sent to camp. By putting Emil so low beneath themselves, they were placing him on the same level as _them_. The thought disgusted Emil. The Nazis didn't care about anybody but themselves- He would show them that they weren't always right like they thought they were. If he wanted to fight, _why wouldn't they let him fight?_ He would get in the Heer, even if it took years, and he would be the best fighter Germany had ever had, and he alone would pay for the discrimination the "Allies" had showed them by, with his own hands, destroying them.

The Führer was the only true, undying, and unrelenting person in the entire Nazi Party. All others were hypocritical- greedy and manipulative without limit. It was disgusting. Herr Knopp himself listened to that Swing music and filled his body with impurities. Hitler had promised to cleanse their race and perfect it, ridding all traces of Jew, homosexuality, retardation, and other flaws needing correction. Was there anything he did that didn't go a step in that direction or contradict it?

Emil would have to continue what he had been doing before- follow orders. He was obedient- at least to a person's face and not their back. So whatever he was doing now he would continue to do, no matter for how long. The Bannführer agreed wholeheartedly, much to Emil's disgust.

Well, it was back to work- and curtains for him.


	3. Chapter 2

**AN- I changed last chapter because I found out that the 'Hitler Youth Leader,' aka, the adult who is in charge of all HJs in an area, is called a Bannführer. A Gefolgschaftsführer, alternatively, is a youth leader, usually young (around Emil´s age) and in charge of 150 or so HJs- like a unit. Again, the sentiments expressed are not my own. (I deleted the AN that came before the first chapter, which that disclaimer had been on.) Speaking of disclaimers, I do not own Emil, Herr Knopp, Thomas, or Peter, or any of their parents, etc.**

The von Hessler brothers were the most promising incoming members that the Hamburg _Hitlerjugend_ had had in years, both involved in the _Jungvolk_ from the day they turned ten. More exciting than anything—they were being placed in the _Hitlerjugend_ together on request of their father (boldly claiming that the von Hesslers placed family above anything else, except for the Reich) at the ages of 14 and 15. Jürgen had held back a year for his brother to complete the course, being offered the privilege of inspecting his peers. Jan was the younger one. Not only were both boys extremely athletic and fit, but they were exceptionally good-looking and well-liked in their school as well as the local _Jungvolk_. The perfect children were here in their wake.

Herren Knopp and Kalinger (the Bannführer) were excited. As was Emil. As a Gefolgschaftsführer of the _Jugend_ the boys would be under his training. It would be a great pleasure to teach them; rarely was a recruit already worthy of defending the Fatherland. Any person with born ability made his job easier. Also, if a boy didn't have born ability, he would never be well-trained enough to fight in the time allotted.

Emil, on one of his lengthy walks around the local _Hitlerjugend_ building, noted that the brick was worn with dents and nicks just by having boys around every day. The obvious lack of care these boys showed when off-duty reminded him of he and Thomas acted when they were hep cats. Thomas was out of here now. Hell, why'd this have to keep coming back to him? Thomas was in the right place in the right time—as Emil himself had been until a few weeks ago. They had been there together once, before Thomas had to be the wimp and back out. The news about his father really was a shame—Emil had known Herr Berger, who had always seemed loyal enough. Who knew about poor Mrs. Berger with both of them gone?

Herr Kalinger stopped Emil in the hall. "Herr Lutz?" He asked. "What are you doing, if I may ask?"

"Just walking, sir." Emil replied. "There is still a half hour before the new recruits arrive, yes?"

"Yes." Herr Kalinger nodded slowly. "Well, enjoy your walk. Heil Hitler."

"Heil Hitler." Herr Kalinger walked past. Emil paused, before doing the same. An authority always was first to leave before his inferior unless his orders said otherwise. Knopp was a great exception nearly always to the first. People always came to him on his demands. Knopp influenced everybody, including the Bannführer himself, who was probably scared stiff to make such a decision himself to hold HJ members over until further notice. Knopp had surprised Emil, for example, with his ways of ordering that didn't even seem to be orders. Knopp, by deduction, could not have been anything more than a coward. Wrong. As soon as Herr Lutz heard from his son that he was to continue being in the _Hitlerjugend_ until further notice, he promised to personally see Herr Knopp and see if he couldn't convince him otherwise. Knopp, with his light, weak persuasive ways, wouldn't budge by Emil´s father's requests. It had probably not been a good idea to let Herr Knopp set the meeting time and place, but Emil's father had disagreed; he had thought that the best strategy—letting Herr Knopp think he was in control. It was a pity and a mystery that Herr Knopp was always in control.

The discussion had been tactful and uneventful, and Herr Lutz had still wanted his son in the Heer. Herr Knopp assured him that Emil would indeed fight in the Heer; he just didn't know when (and how, as Emil suspected,) as of yet. Emil was nearly as upset as his father when his first (and confident) hopes of being released were dashed. Now there were other ways—earning the Bannführer's absolute respect as an inferior by showing respect, getting a good word from the new recruits, and impressing upon Herr Knopp as well. That man held all the power; Emil may as well have accepted it by now.

There were about ten new recruits talking amiably to each other when Emil arrived in the meeting room five minutes early, clad in uniform. He stood away from the recruits and continued to think: how much longer would he be in the Hitler Youth instead of the army? Herr Kalinger had informed him earlier that they were short on members and had needed some of the old members to stay and help with the training at the ranking of Gefolgschaftsführer. At the rank of Gefolgschaftsführer, each person would be in charge of over one hundred HJs. Emil had already been a Gefolgschaftsführer for a year and a half. The Bannführer also needed the hardest workers, as well, because the routines were going to get more rigorous as of this year.

Emil was in the right place at the right time. Correction: Emil was in the right at the right time with a twist, a detour. Emil didn't like deception. He didn't want leadership—he wanted to move on. He did not want to be in charge of a hundred and fifty HJs forever. Hell, being promoted to Bannführer wouldn't have changed his mind. And he was probably the only member who was forced to stay; he hadn't heard about any others. Damn the stupid liars. In 1940 the web of lies grew tighter, pulling Emil in and trapping him when he thought he had been home free. Hard work and honest work were the only things that could get him out of this fix, he knew.

Glancing around the room, Emil could not help but observe the new recruits. There were exactly eight, which had been close to his previous estimate. All of them looked to be fourteen years old. There were no older boys left to join. All of the older boys were soldiers when the restrictions for attendance of _Hitlerjugend_ meetings had tightened in 1939, one year ago. There was no way of knowing which ones were the von Hessler brothers; all of the boys had fair to dark blonde hair and most were arguably good-looking, (the only description Herr Kalinger had given him of the boys) excepting the heavyset boy who was slumping in the back. If nothing else, the routines here would whip him into shape. He had obviously been nowhere near the _Jungvolk_ routines at their roughest, or perhaps none at all. Likely the latter.

Emil's watch, (which his friends had once jokingly—and accurately—called his only conscious,) pointing fingerlessly at numbers, indicated that there were about two minutes to wait before he would begin with the new recruits. They still chattered. The first lesson they would learn was to be quiet by the time training was to begin.

Emil looked at his watch again. Time.

"I am Emil Lutz, your unit leader." He said, standing and beginning to pace in front of the recruits. The boys looked at him. "As I pass each of you, you will tell me your name. Which will be followed with your age and why you are here." If their previous leader had taught them correctly, how it seemed that he had, they would all know exactly what to say. The Reich—as well as the Bannführer—demanded absolute loyalty. By this time, he had made it to the far right of the room.

"Starting with you." He pointed at the heavyset boy, who had been the first one in the line starting on the right, and slowed his pacing.

"Falk Ackermann. 14. Heil Hitler."

Emil nodded curtly at him and looked at the next person. "You."

"Inge Mauhler. 14. Heil Hitler."

"Jürgen von Hessler. 15. Heil Hitler."

"Jan von Hessler. 14. Heil Hitler."

"Artur Ackermann. 14. Heil Hitler." He paused, looking pointedly at the boy on the far right, and said "No relation, sir."

The heavyset boy named Falk began to snicker. Emil raised his eyebrows at him, giving him a silent look before redirecting his attention to the next recruit. "You."

"Orel Schwarzenbach. 14. Heil Hitler."

"Oswald Gehl. 14. Heil Hitler."

"Oskar Sigg. 14. Heil Hitler."

Emil stopped at the end of the line, turned, and paced in the other direction. "Many of you were transferred directly from the Jungvolk and therefore know what kind of routines to expect. Would anyone care to inform me what the last thing was you did there?"

The second boy, Inge, raised his hand. "We… we were working with bows, sir." He said quietly. "Archery."

"Here," Emil had just waited for him to finish, barely listening. (He had a curriculum to follow, regardless.) "You will become skilled in self-defense. You will learn, if you have not already, how to use a Luger. You will spend much time in the shooting range, and know how to throw a hand grenade. You will learn all important skills that will qualify your participation in the Wehrmacht, whether you join the Luftwaffe, Heer, or Kreigsmarine. This will depend on your membership in the Fleiger-HJ, Motor-HJ, or Marine-HJ. You will show me, as your unit leader, as well as the Bannführer, absolute respect. I will be your trainer. I have neither the time or patience to work with fools. Watch me, keep up, and you should do fine. Any clowning around will be stopped and the instigators will be punished." Emil stared down hard at the boys in an attempt to intimidate them. Some of them were intimidated. They weren't supposed to be intimidated—they were supposed to be intimidating. By the time they were out of here, they would know that difference—and well. If from nobody else, then from him.

"Hallo!"

Emil turned around in surprise. His part of the meeting was over; the recruits were turned over to the Bannführer for the rest of the day, as was he, for Emil was still a member. Jürgen and Jan, the wonder brothers, were attempting to catch up to Emil. Emil slowed down in courtesy, albeit with suspicion: How could a brisk walking pace whip these boys out of shape?

Fifteen seconds later, the von Hessler brothers and Emil were walking together. "Sorry." Jürgen apologized, "Our leader in the Jungvolk didn´t want us to run in the halls and that´s what we´re used to. You a Gefolgschaftsführer?"

"Yes." Emil said. "I was promoted last year. I am supposed to continue my job indefinitely."

"Bummer." Jürgen replied. "I mean, for some people. Like me. I´m going to be in the Luftwaffe after I leave here."

Emil raised an eyebrow. "Congratulations." He certainly wasn´t a modest boy.

"Do you plan to train for the rest of your life?" Jan asked.

Emil directed his attention to the other brother. "No. I´ll make it to the Heer someday.

"Ah! Knew you had it in you, the way you were bossing all of us around just now." Jürgen grinned. "A hint of bitterness in the gentleman´s life."

Emil forced a smile. "Call it what you will. I´m not bitter."

"Wh-oooooops. My apologies, frie… Sir."

"How long have you been here, then?" Jan asked.

"This´ll be my fourth year. Fourth and a half."

"And a-half?" Jürgen prompted.

"I waited half a year before joining,"

"After leaving the Jungvolk, you mean."

"Yes."

"Why?"

Emil stiffened. "Illness."

"What kind of—"

"Jesus, Jürgen. You´re a snoop." His brother teased.

"Who are you callin´ snoopy?" Jürgen glared at his brother.

"And now I have a question for you both: why are you talking to me?" Emil asked.

Silence. Jürgen turned slowly to his brother.

Emil smirked, satisfied.

The boys shrugged simultaneously. Jürgen laughed heartily. "Fair question. Fair, fair, fair."

Emil closed his eyes.

"Hey Jan—I think we pissed him off. Sorry sir." Jürgen smirked.

"Oh no, boys. I just have a headache. A large one, as a matter of fact." Emil said through gritted teeth.

"Sorry Sir. We didn´t notice." That was Jan.

"As did I either." Jürgen said. "What's bothering you, ma… Sir? Do you feel alone in this war-torn world?"

"If you weren´t going to join the Luftwaffe, Herr von Hessler, I daresay you would´ve made an excellent interviewer."

"That´s Jürgen to you. And for him," Jan said, gesturing toward his brother. "Except he, obviously, is Jan."

"Both of you are Herren von Hesslers to me. Courtesy." (Emil had forgotten to add "orders" on the end.)

Jürgen again turned to his brother, slowly, and for the first time since meeting him, to Emil he looked serious. "We are men now, Bruder. Danke amen."

Jan frowned. "We've never been men before? Great."

Emil, ironically, nearly smirked at them. Instead, he simply continued facing forward.

"Yes, you are men. And so your performance and trial will be that of men. This training is harder than the _Jungvolk_ is. Expect that."

"We do and will, Sir. We will work until we are ready to defend the Fatherland, and there we will die if necessary—when we are ready."

"Glad to hear it." Emil said idly.

Jürgen cracked a grin. "I mean it, you know. Especially about dying. Really. I´m happy to die. Of course, my brother has to go first, after he´s sufficiently saved my life and apologized for every time he tickled me every time the guns were about to start a footrace and won." Jürgen smirked.

Emil looked at Jan.

"That was a long time ago!" Jan protested. "And only once."

Were these goof-ups really the best the _Jungvolk_ had to offer. No, this _had_ to be a mistake. _They_ had to be a mistake.

"So that other guy, Falk. He´s a bit of a hefty one." Jan muttered to his brother. "Never know how he´s going to make it through training—"

"Make it? The boy´ll never make it. Ackermann´s no better, that snob. I swear he and the blimp are cousins."

"As I know it, the blimp is also an Ackermann, is he not?" Jan replied to his brother.

"The blimp is The Blimp. End of story."

Jan and Jürgen howled with laughter.

Emil lagged behind the boys a good distance before making his way past them and shuffling again to the front. Lagging made him sick, anyhow. It was his duty as a leader to stop this, but that duty had never been carried through, by the Bannführer or any other of the Gefolgschaftsführern he had known during his _Hitlerjugend_ years. And honestly, these were trivialities when training for a war. He had more important things to worry about—as did everyone. If a boy couldn´t handle something like this then he should´ve been thrown in a camp with the rest of Hitler´s leftovers. Weakness was for no one, women at the bare minimum, though his father would beat him hard for saying that. But his father hadn´t known Anne. End of story.

But Emil didn´t want to think about his old girlfriend. Not now. There was the Bannführer and his speech to worry about now, though he had heard it four times now.

The doors opened to the film room and Emil was the first of his condensed unit to enter. He stood in the back. No recognition. No prize. Nothing for being the only boy to have unfairly flunked out of the Wehrmacht. His anger swelled as the slide pictures of a regular man and a Jewish man were shown on the screen with the Bannführer pointing to them and talking.

Emil was _not_ trying to listen. Emil had had to listen to this at least a thousand times and it was unfair to make him listen again. The slide turned to a picture everyone knew—one of a gorilla-lipped black man playing the saxaphone. And when Bei Mir Bist Du Schön began playing and, suddenly, imbedding itself in his head with a morbid sensual beckoning, Emil could swear that the teaching was complete and utter bullshit. There was _no_ spell with Swing. There may´ve been with Jews, but _not_ with Swing. Swing may have been pointless and stupid, but no more than the teaching. It was all overrated, sickeningly overrated with a brand on music that needn´t be bothered. Emil could swear, in a single moment, that _all_ these teachings were overrated. The Jews were inferior, all right, but they were obviously _not_ going to take over the world. Why would anybody try that undercover for hundreds of years? Besides, they weren´t smart enough, not by a long shot. Their spells were not overpowering. The Jews, indeed, were overrated- just like that trash music. Emil was ready to walk away from this _stupid_ preaching and go to a club. Swing was stupid but at least it wasn´t preachy.

As soon as the veil had fallen, it was lifted. Emil now knew exactly why he had turned to Swing all these years ago. And he would never forget, not for the rest of his life.

That was what he had thought at the time.

The next slide came and Emil no longer saw red. His breathing slowed. He had simply been crazed, angered. He had been so for good reason. He never got any recognition.

Had anyone noticed? Emil looked around.

The new recruits of his unit stared at the Bannführer. Not a person moved. Any one of them could´ve heard a pin drop, but by the way they were acting now, no one would´ve dared turn around to see it. These recruits didn´t have such a long way to go after all.


	4. Chapter 3

26 members of Emil's unit, including the recruits, were standing in a small practice room with a boxing/wrestling ring in the center. The day-old recruits' vigor had disappeared to nowhere in particular, as they leaned on the walls and sat whenever possible. They weren't going to get off so easily.

"Were any of you taught how to wrestle in the _Jungvolk_?" Emil asked, carefully eyeing the group of recruits, packed together in the back.

"Yes sir, but only the basics." Inge called across the room.

"Today you will all learn to wrestle. One of the most important components in your favor is a firm stance. Stand with your feet shoulder-width apart."

All the boys complied.

"Now bend your knees. Keep your back straight. Herr Mauhler, what was taught in the _Jungvolk_? Were the Bridge and Headlock covered?"

"No, sir."

"Partners: Herr Mauhler, Herr Schwarzenbach. Herr Gehl, Herr Sigg. Herr Ackermann and Herr Ackermann.

Falk shuffled his feet and Artur sighed. "I told you we weren't related."

"Be quiet." Emil barked.

Artur straightened up and went to stand beside Falk. He didn't have to move; Falk was joining him.

"Herr von Hessler and Herr von Hessler. Herr Abrahamsen and Herr Schmidt. Herr Ferenbacher, Herr Abrell. Herr Stief, Herr Kolberg. Herr Kossler, Herr Gille. Herr Krueger, Herr Heike. Herr Zimmermen, Herr Brosmer. Herr Neuer. Herr Rad, Herr Salge. Herr Stein, Herr Thompsen. We'll go over some basic wrestling moves. First, we will do the Headlock. Would anyone like to demonstrate the headlock with me?"

Several boys raised their hands. None of them was a new recruit.

"Herr Abrell. Thank you for volunteering."

The boy stepped under the ropes and into the ring. Emil, who had been standing directly in front of the ring, did the same. "We will begin with the Headlock. Wrap your arm around your opponent's neck."

Emil let the younger boy (albeit the same height) wrap an elbow around his neck.

"Take your opponent down." Emil knocked Abrell to the ground. He lay on his back.

Abrell rose, weaving his arm under Emil's and pressing it against the back of Emil's head.

"That was a poorly attempted Half-Nelson. Keep your feet closer together." Emil twisted out of the grip and again knocked his opponent to the ground. "Footwork. Always keep a firm stance as your base." He dropped down to his knees and pinned Abrell to the floor. "Pin your opponent to the ground by applying pressure to his shoulders. Thank you, Herr Abrell."

Abrell, peeved, dove under the ring and rejoined the mildly roused audience.

"The Arm Bar, Bridge, and Cradle are next. Any new volunteers?"

The boys didn't budge, their confidence gone.

"Herr Abrell, would you join me?"

Abrell, again, walked up and into the ring, more slowly this time.

"The Arm Bar is another lock, like the Headlock. Watch carefully."

Abrell looked at his mentor uncertainly.

Emil suppressed a smirk. Abrell had been well put in his place. "Place your arm over your opponent's elbow and behind his back and hold." He waited for Abrell and smirked, knocking him to the ground. "The Bridge is one of the most useful defensive moves. Arch your back away from the mat, using your arms and legs. This takes flexibility. It prevents your opponent from pinning you."

Abrell rose from the mat after doing the Bridge and stood behind Emil.

"The Cradle—"

Abrell stopped in his tracks.

"is a commonly-seen move. Pick up your opponent. Place one arm around his neck and the other behind his knee. Get both knees if you have the time to." Emil picked Abrell up. "As such."

Several of the boys snickered.

"Drag your opponent's knees up to his face." Emil curled Abrell's languid body up into a ball, lifting him above his head, and walking to and fro to show all the boys the position. "The next move would be to throw him on the ground." Emil dropped Abrell. "Spread out and practice."

Abrell sheepishly ducked under the rope and went to the very back of the group, pressing his back against the wall.

Boys were always more apt with physical activities; the pattern never deceived. Emil walked around the partners, shirking some odd limbs and moves, giving no advice. The von Hessler brothers were goofing off with just as much confidence as they used performing the moves themselves without skipping a beat. Jürgen had taken to locking Jan in the Cradle and jogging laps around the room, like an Olympic torch carrier, several times in the past few minutes, perhaps hoping to gain attention. The only consequence: no one was paying attention to them.

Emil, having long ago learned to keep half his mind stay rooted firmly somewhere and let other half meander free, noted idly that the boys were no longer spread out.

"Stay spread apart." Emil reminded loudly. "Practice is almost o—"

"Look at 'em go!" Jürgen whispered, as if he were face-to-face with Goethe***** himself.

"That chubster's good! Ackermann doesn't stand a chance!" Jan replied, eyes following the same target, equally shocked.

Emil, taller than most of the boys, could successfully look over most of them to see what he assumed was the source of the excitement. In the very center of the crown crouched a boy on the floor, holding another, more heavy-set, boy in place. He had assumed correctly. Knowing that the heavy one was Falk Ackermann, the other boy had to be Artur Ackermann.

"Isn't he going to get up?" A boy near him complained.

"Yes. Watch. Chubs can't stay on the floor forever." His companion replied, bug-eyed.

The heftier Ackermann sprang up, sending the punier one off to the side. He landed on his back.

"That's enough." Emil said loudly. "That's enough."

Ackermann hoisted a leg in each arm, nearly lifting his opponent completely off the ground, and stepped over one, dropping him on the ground face-down.

"ONE! TWO! THREE!" Jan von Hessler yelled.

"Four. Five. Six. Seven." Jürgen counted with his brother. "Eight. Nine. TEN!!!!!!!!"

"Going, going—gone!" Jan beamed. "And… Ackermann wins!"

"Shhhhh." Jürgen placed a finger over his lips, eyeing the area to see if Emil—their trainer—was nearby."

"Herr Lutz is okay." Jan said, familiar with his brother's neverending concern.

"Maybe, but he could put in a bad word for us." The elder brother lowered his voice. "I can't take that risk. We have to tone it down, Jan. We aren't kids anymore. Don't you want to be able to join the Luftwaffe?"

"Whatever you say, Jürg, whatever you say." Jan chuckled.

Silence.

"It is now our sacred duty to grab Ackermann and celebrate." Jürgen's face split into a grin. Face flushed from practicing, he looked rather like a deranged pumpkin.

"Ackermann? What happened to the Blimp?" Jan asked with a knowing smile. It, of course, had been a rhetorical question.

"Herren von Hesslers?" Emil walked over to them.

Both boys looked intently at him.

"Keep it down, please."

"Yes Sir." Jürgen replied. He and Jan walked over to where Falk Ackermann was standing and shaking hands with Artur Ackermann with a semi-sour expression on his face. Emil followed with his eyes. Taking into consideration the features of the boys' faces, still not at all near the intensity of that fight he had had with Thomas.

"So how come you never talk about her?"

"Who?"

"Your old girlfriend." Jürgen said, winking at him. "We know all about her."

Ackermann sighed. "Okay… what's your name? Jan? I don't have a girlfriend."

"Well, we know you don't have one any_more_." Jürgen smirked. "I'm Jan, by the way. Who was she?"

"I've never had a girlfriend in my life." Falk replied stiffly.

"Never? Never?"

"HJs aren't supposed to have girlfriends, anyway."

"Who says?"

"Just heard it around."

"Heard what around?"

"That HJ members are sexually deprived by definition." Falk cracked a grin.

Both boys roared with laughter.

"Well, no matter. We're getting him a girl." Jürgen stage-whispered to his brother.

"He can hear you." Jan smirked back.

"Wonderful." Jürgen turned back to Falk, grinning from ear to ear. "What do you think, then, Ackermann?"

Falk did a double-take and looked in instinct at Artur. and his friends were all on the ground, perfecting their own version of the Bridge and collapsing, their bodies trembling noticeably at every attempt. "Him?" He pointed behind his shoulder.

"Va? That Scheißer? He has no nam…" Jürgen said loudly, before laughing. "What the hell is he doing? He looks like he's…"

"Having a baby." Jan finished, smiling.

The boys smirked at each other.

"What's that, Frau?!" Jürgen yelled with a hand cupped over his mouth. "How far along? It is a little boy or a little girl?"

"That's what his girlfriend looks like." Jan added sagely. "Must have gotten _her_ pregnant."

Artur glared and walked away with his friends. "That took care of Puny. He's a queer one." Jürgen said in an undertone to Jan and Falk.

"Why do you think he's so… stuck-up?" Jan asked.

"What's it to us to know?" Jürgen shrugged. "If he's an asshole, he's an asshole. We'll just stay away from him… right, Ackermann-with-no-relation?"

Falk had walked away.

Jürgen clapped his hands once, then followed him.

"I know a marvelous girl in the BDM who would be just fine for you. Just joined a month ago."

Falk sighed. "Didn't I tell you that HJ members never get girlfriends?"

"Neither do BDMs. It'd be a perfect fit."

"If you're tricking me…"

"I believe you." Jan cut across him, having seen the recent fight as clearly as any other. "And he does, too. Time to believe us now? Bitte?"

"We love girls; we know lots of them." Jürgen assured. "She's very pretty."

"Ach. Girlfriends are no good to the world."

_He really had this world pegged, then,_ thought Emil, overhearing.

"That is not so, I am afraid." Jürgen nodded sadly.

"Don't worry about it. Girlfriends really aren't any good to the world, if you think about it. Neither are women. My sister will be in the BDM a couple years from now and I'm almost sorry for her, what they teach there. Cooking. Cleaning." Jan wrinkled his nose. "_Camping_. But they can't fight, of course. That's the way things are."

"Shame, really. But Elfi's a swell girl. She likes manly-men, too. Won't look at a guy if he's not in the _Hitlerjugend_, little vixen. And look at you! You beat down Puny here down pretty good awhile ago."

"And we'll never have girlfriends when we're pilots."

"No, only time when girlfriends are really useless."

"So enjoy her while you can." The boys chorused.

"_Anyhow_," Jan began, "what do we do now? Practice is over."

"Mmm-mmm. Herr Lutz hasn't said so yet."

"No?"

"He was probably given instructions for us to go until a certain time. Look—some of us are still practicing."

"Speaking of which, we'd better find our partners and at least pretend to before he catches us, as well."

"Jürg, he won't do anything!"

"Let's not take our chances." Jürgen lowered his voice. "They're more serious here, Jan. We can't go around disrespecting the trainers. Here, it's about absolute conformity."

"Wasn't that what it was about in the _Jungvolk_? Isn't that what the NSDAP is about?"

"Yes, it should be, I suppose."

"Then what are you worried about? _We're_ fine. Father said the Bannführer was eager to make our arrangement last year and excited to have us join the _Hitlerjugend_ this year."

"They're short on members."

"Do yourself a favor, Jürg, and shut up. Would you look at that? Ackermann's gone again."

"Good. None of us will get in trouble, the—"

"Practice is over. There will be a competition at the end of this week. The winner will be rewarded with an entry in his Leistungsbuch." Emil announced. "For the rest of the week you will be trained in simple self-defense skills as a review; next week we will begin work with Lugers. My work with you is done for today. You will now report to the Bannführer." Emil said. "Follow me."

It had taken Emil three months to memorize the surname of every man in his unit, which had amounted to a total of nearly one hundred and sixty names. It had taken him twelve times that long to earn the ranking of Gefolgschaftsführer. It had taken him that divided by three to get over his Swing craze. These things he had calculated long ago. Long ago he had been the same person, produced the same thoughts, and followed the same path until it was cut short.

It was what he didn't know that he feared most.

***Johann von Goethe was a very famous German poet. Many of his writings were later converted to songs.**


	5. Chapter 4

_Eight months later – July, 1941_

"Hold your non-throwing arm out. The grenade should land fifteen meters away. Get down immediately after the throw—you don't want to be visible to the enemy." Emil paused. "Throw!"

Inge's grenade landed no more than ten feet outside the pit and lay there morosely. Despairingly, he looked at his trainer.

"Don't throw at the ground." Emil barked. "Let go of the grenade while your arm is still high. Down, Herr Mauhler. Get down."

Inge ducked.

"Next person in line, enter the pit."

The pits were narrow areas that resembled stalls. There were eight pits lined up in a row, Emil's entire unit stationed behind them. The shooting range had been keenly transformed for grenade training today. Army procedures created a larger role for the Gefolgschaftsführern for their original purposes—control over their unit. Roughly two thirds of Emil's unit had thrown. They were in line behind the boys who hadn't. Most of the boys left were new recruits.

"Position."

Pause. Eight boys, few of them recruits, swiftly held their non-throwing arms out, each keeping the arm with the grenade close to his chest.

"Throw."

Eight heads disappeared. Eight training grenades flew through the air semi-expertly. They made indignant popping noises as they detonated, all within seconds each other.

"Next person, in the pit. Don't lag!"

The von Hessler brothers stepped up to their pits, agitated beads of sweat piercing their tendrils and soaking them. It was a mildly hot day today, not what Hamburgers was used to.

"Position! Herr Ferenbacher, move more quickly. Don't make yourself a target to the enemy. Throw!"

Ppop-pop-pop-Pppop-pop.

"Next!"

Oskar, Artur, and Oswald moved up with five more recruits.

"Position!"

He watched them closely.

"Throw!"

Of the recruits, only two of them had made the suggested fifteen meters. Emil sighed. "Throw harder!" was about the advice he could give at this point. "Next!"

The eight boys stood and departed the pits. Oswald yelled "Yes Sir!" Artur curtly jerked his head up and down. Oskar stumbled and wiped the sweat off his brow.

There were only four new lines left. All behind them had thrown. The eighty or so '40 and '41 recruits in his unit were not doing as badly as Emil had first predicted. Still, there was no room for mistakes, and they were making too many.

Falk and Orel were with the next eight. Both of them were crippled by the sun's heat. Falk walked upright and stiffly. Orel stumbled along, much like Oskar. Falk had lost a considerable amount of weight from the training, and was even good-looking now, albeit short. It was strange, nearly comical, to see Orel, the taller-framed boy, compose himself in an awkward manner and Falk, still pudgy, retain the true _Jugend_ stride.

"Position!" Emil was tempted to wipe his brow. "Throw!"

If only grenades could be launched from a bow as arrows were. Half the boys, who had been fine archers, lost their talent in drawing upon their own arm strength.

"Throw hard! Release grenade while your arm is in mid-air, _not_ while it is pointing toward the ground! Your movements must be swift and confident! Get down _immediately_ after the grenade is thrown! Next!"

Two seventeen-year-olds, four sixteen-year-olds, and two recruits. They would never win the war with fighters like these on a battlefield, unless they completed another round.

"Position! Throw!" Emil, standing behind the lines, could not measure how far the grenades would go until they had landed. A bold, short wall indicated the end of fifteen meters. It was the mark that the boys' grenades would have to pass if they would ever be able to consider themselves true soldiers. Hitler's true men were flawless fighters; advocators and appliers of bravery. They would never fall. They could never fall. There were simply too few of those kind fighting right now.*

"Next!"

Eight more boys.

"Position! Throw! Next!"

Eight more boys: last time.

"Position! Throw!"

The boys stumbled doggedly out of their formation.

"Get back in line for another round!" Emil yelled.

The boys stopped in their tracks and looked behind them at Emil. "This is unacceptable! If you don't quit throwing like half-wits then look forward to staying out here until sunset!"

A groan came from the boys, building and rising quickly to a shriek of indignation. They sidled back to their lines, from which no one had moved very far. The original line yielded to the last line as the components of it staggered to the very back, throwing Emil subtle glares.

Emil respired silently. "Position!" He yelled.

Jürgen and Jan ran up to Emil immediately after the second round had ended (sufficiently).

"How'd we do?" Jürgen asked eagerly.

"You boys did fine." Emil smiled at them. "As usual."

"Better than most of them, right?" Jan prompted.

"It was only right, making us do it over." Jürgen smiled thoughtfully. "Our friend is wise, is he not?"

"Perhaps." Emil said vaguely. Discussing training methods with a student was utterly out of the question. Jürgen should have known that by now.

"Very." Said Jan absently.

"Alas! My brother is tired!" Jürgen smiled. "Are we doing anything else, Herr Lutz?"

"No, but we are reviewing Lugers tomorrow." Emil smiled at Jürgen. "You and Jan are doing well and have nothing to worry about."

"No, nothing but my girlfriend." Jürgen's smile faded. "She is causing me… problems."

Emil laughed. "What kind of problems?"

"Only problems a—"

"Girl could cause." Emil finished for him.

"She won't talk to me until I buy her a birthday present." Jürgen rolled his eyes. "Fran's such a brat. Maybe I won't buy her a thing. She doesn't deserve anything, that's for sure." He smirked.

"Treat women mean and they'll leave you." Emil said. "Treat them nice and they'll do the same thing. Learned it the hard way."

"And haven't got a girlfriend since, eh?"

"That's right. And now I have a successful theory about women."

"Proof?"

"That your Fransizka is exactly the same as my old girlfriend."

"Implying?"

"That woman are indeed much inferior to men. There is no variety, which indicates lack of complexity in their brains and thinking patterns."

Jürgen chuckled. "Ah. Harsh. But that is a fact that men have known for hundreds of years."

"Do you suppose the women have found out yet?" Jan asked.

"Surely not." Emil said.

"No. They'll probably never find out, poor things." Jürgen laughed.

"Probably not." Emil repeated.

"You're serious, aren't you?" Jürgen asked Emil, laughing harder. "You've got them pegged then, Herr Lutz, if a little bit too much so."

"Girls are ditzy, yes. The only girl who isn't is the girl you eventually marry." Jan said.

"That _is_ true." Jürgen replied.

"Perhaps."

"But my girlfriend promises to visit me, and never does. Then she complains that I'm neglecting _her_! She has nothing better to do than go to school and pinning it all on _me_! She's so silly I almost like her." Jürgen grinned lazily.

"I think you do." Jan joked. "To have been seeing her for so long."

*"I think that she's blackmailed me and I don't know it." Jürgen replied, without missing a beat.

"Or so, that's just an excuse."

"Or so, you're making a big deal out of what isn't." Jürgen was vexed.

"Or you're losing your temper because you're being contradictory."

Both boys laughed and hung arms around each other, walking off into the distance as they talked about some new topic. Emil had been lost since the beginning. He probably wasn't even supposed to keep boys training under him as his companions. But there was no one else and certainly no one else his own age. Thomas had been his friend, once upon a time. All things considered, no one could replace Thomas. And friendship was just as useless as romance. Being in the presence of the von Hessler brothers peeved him in a way that only Thomas could. Emil hadn't been lying when he had confessed to having a theory about women. He had a theory about friendship as well.

The next day was Lugers. The boys had had to take down the pits and replace the throw line with targets. The day began at dawn. The war had begun accelerating. The program had grown yet more rigorous. It was not just about the older ones who were ready to leave the _Hitlerjugend_; it was about those who would be called in case of emergency. As a trainer, the war was none of his business. Emil was not fighting in it. Not now. Not yet.

"Always keep your eyes on the target." Emil ordered his sleep-logged unit. "Keep both eyes open and alert. Aim for the target. Do not aim for anything other than the target. All this, you should remember." He gazed at the members in his unit to make sure that every one was listening. "When on the battlefield: there is no time for thought. There is no time for mercy. War is won by casualties, as are victories. And alertness—" He shoved a nearby recruit to test his balance. "Is the basis for your own victory. You must kill to survive. Today I expect no sluggards or dunces. You must be as quick in mind as you had to be quick in movement in practice yesterday. Get in your lines."

The boys, just as unmotivated as they had been a minute before, complied. Emil had expected nothing more of them.

"First one in line, step up."

Eight boys, as yesterday, crawled forward. One of them stumbled and fell to the ground, over the shooting line.

"Herr Schmidt," Emil said coldly. "If Hitler had wanted someone with coordination such as yours, he surely would not have been disappointed upon visiting a bar. The next person who trips today will be punished. Ready." Emil paused for a few seconds, waiting for the boys to resume their positions in front of the shooting line. "Aim."

Each boy lifted a Luger from his left and pointed it at his target.

"Shoot."

It was here he slept every night, and here he woke every day, solemnly circumspect. It was here where he faced no surprises. Emil woke at the same time every day, in the same room. He never took naps; taking naps was bad for the overall concentration and mental balance of a man. He had never slept anywhere else a day in his life. Even when he and Anne…

.

His parents were downstairs, talking, always talking, talking for as long as he could remember. Nothing had ever changed in his life, really. Life would be different once he left Hamburg to begin his assistance for the victory of the Fatherland. Life would Change. Emil didn't embrace change or dread it; there was simply no time. There was scarcely time to forget; he remembered so much by habit. Hell, he hadn't forgotten anything since Anne…

.

Emil rose and changed into his uniform. He left his room and closed the door. He descended the stairs nearest to his room, the ones that led to the dining room.

The slim shadow of Frau Lutz stood in the very center of the room, gazing at the chandelier. Her husband stood beside her, his tall frame blocking the little light that eminated from the room. He gripped a cane, as he always would. They stood at a forty-five degree angle away from the adjacent wall, their backs still to their son. They whispered, to avoid waking him. Emil hated whispering; he heard whether he was asleep or not. Having his choice to eavesdrop or not, he decided not to.

"Mother. Father."

"Good morning, Emil." Frau Lutz smiled at her son. "How are you this morning?"

"Well." Emil said. "As always."

"Have you eaten?"

"No. I will soon."

"Good. Rolf is preparing breakfast for us."

"That is good."

"Is your training going well?" Herr Lutz asked tentatively.

"Yes. It is going well."

"Don't worry, Emil. You'll leave. I'm sure they'll release you soon. I still don't like this about the Bannführer holding you back."

"Though he did it because you are a good student and a good trainer." Frau Lutz assured. "They'll be needing more soldiers. Soon they'll need you." She smiled at Emil.

"Damn right they will. Emil's not getting cheated of anything—"

"Of course not, Georg. Emil will be the best one fighting. He will fight."

"Yes, Father. I will. They promised to let me go."

Knopp hadn't promised anything. But a place in the war—a real place, not this training bullshit—was a God-given right. If the war passed by without Emil's participation, Knopp would hear about it—from Herr Lutz, at least.

"Rolf—where is Rolf? Rolf." Frau Lutz snapped.

Rolf, the family's cook and butler, rushed into the room. "Frau?"

"Rolf, _where_ is our breakfast?" She chuckled. "It is early, yes, but our son is a busy man."

Rolf left the room, returning with the family's breakfast: ham. "My apologies, Frau, I misunderstood you to mean that I was to bring breakfast later—"

"You did, you did. I apologize for snapping at you. For, where would this family be without a good butler?"

"Katarine," Herr Lutz began, as soon as Rolf was gone. "I'm afraid that—"

"Does this have to do with Rolf?" Frau Lutz cut across him.

"We've made Rolf's—issues—known to the authorities for years, but since things have tightened so much since last year—"

"What, because he is a criminal? He is a good worker! I will not have—"

"What will we tell them? I'm not sure they'll let him go this year."

"That he is a good worker! They have no right to take away our butler! Where do they get that right—"

"Katarine!" Herr Lutz barked.

"What, _Georg_? I don't like the fact that they're taking something that belongs to us—"

"Do not speak that way of us, Katarine." Herr Lutz warned.

Herr Lutz was a strong Nazi Party member. He had not missed a meeting in over ten years. When he was a youth, he was one of Hitler's stormtroopers, rounded up in Berlin with the others when he had been released from jail. He had met his wife in Hamburg and married her there. Somehow the Lutzs had never gotten back to Berlin.

Frau Lutz sighed. "You're right. I am sorry, Georg. But times are hard, no? We cannot afford a new butler."

"What if the authorities would compensate?" Herr Lutz sighed. "But they wouldn't. We wouldn't."

"Compensation is good. But who knows if we even want a person like Rolf in our house anymore. We can get better. Times are hard; times are hard…"

Silence. Emil ate his breakfast thoughtfully. They had held onto Rolf for too long now, being the type of person that he is. That was dull news. However, his father flaring up against his mother—taking into consideration that Herr Lutz had always considered his wife as almost an equal—was strange.

Emil stood, glancing at his. "I must go now."

Herr and Frau Lutz beamed at their son. "Good luck with training." Herr Lutz said.

"Thank you." Emil replied. He walked across the dining room to the long hallway that led to the front door. Today, the boys would learn the basics of driving and controlling a tank. Emil's entire unit was composed of Motor-HJ members. In addition, they would learn the advanced procedure of throwing a grenade from the ground, in continuation to their lesson two days ago.


End file.
